


we could plant a house, we could build a tree

by lefteyeastrology



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, High School Losers Club (IT), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maggie & Wentworth Tozier Are Trying Their Best, Oblivious Bill Denbrough, Pennywise May or May Not Exist (IT), Period Typical Homophobia, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie Tozier's Sense of Humor, The Losers Club Are Good Friends (IT), also kurt comes up so much that not putting him in the character tags would have been a farce, bill is a himbo don't @ me, georgie still dead tho, gratuitous use of the word fuck, i forgot to work the demon clown in here, it's really his low self esteem talking, ngl i think its pretty sexy of me to include him and not pennywise, pennywise more like pennyBITCH, richie's parents sound shittier than they are, so demon clown may be a thing who knows not me, the billverly happened by accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lefteyeastrology/pseuds/lefteyeastrology
Summary: "And really you’d think it’d be the other way around! You’d think it’d be the appropriately distant rockstar would be the “I-don’t-actually-like-boys” safe crush and the best friend would be the extremely cold bucket of gay ass water on Richie’s head. Not that Richie really wants it to be the other way around. Frankly, he doesn’t want this to be any way around. "OR-Richie's knee-deep in denial until Kurt Cobain forces him to reckon with his sexuality and, in turn, his immensely inconvenient feelings for his best friend.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor Bill Denbrough/Beverly Marsh - Relationship
Comments: 13
Kudos: 79





	we could plant a house, we could build a tree

**Author's Note:**

> this is both my first IT fanfic and the first fanfic I've written since I was twelve. The premise is self-indulgent, but I wanted to write about my three favorite boys-Reddie and Kurt Cobain  
> TW: for some homophobic language, courtesy of both Bowers and Richie's internalized homophobia; brief discussion of suicide

On some level, Richie Tozier is aware his gay awakening is kind of weird.

If he wants to get really technical about it, he first realized that something was ... _off_ .... when he was playing Street Fighter with Bowers’ cousin-Charlie or Carter or whatever the kid’s name was-

(It was Connor, but Richie likes to pretend he doesn’t remember that.

He likes to pretend a lot of things)

Anyway, their fingers brushed against one another for a little too long and there was this tingling, the kind you get when you rub your hands against wool for too long. And then those pretty sky eyes turned stormy and Richie had to book it from the arcade lest Bowers fucking kill him.

So Richie had had a good cry -not that he’d admit it. He would very much prefer it the world go thinking he was born without tear ducts, thank you very much-, not because of Connor’s rejection or Bowers screaming that he was a faggot because honestly he was used to both rejection and homophobia at this point. Hell, he was just glad he got out with his glasses intact.

No, he was crying because of Eddie. Because in the minutes his stomach had jumped as he played Street Fighter with Connor put the moment he was cuddled up with Eddie on the hammock and he couldn’t move his hand from his leg because of how nice his skin felt underneath his, the way Eddie’s little button nose scrunches up, _cute cute cute_ , the way his face flushes when he’s angry and how quick he is with a retort to Richie’s mom jokes, and the glint in his eyes when he smiles, warm and brown. Chocolatey

And of _course_ it has to be Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, his best fucking friend. Eddie, who is so clean, who rambled about AIDS when they set out to fix Ben’s mildly disemboweled stomach.

What would Eddie say if he knew what a fucking freak Richie was?

Richie refused to cry in public for an extended amount of time, in part because it probably wouldn’t do much to quell speculation about him being a fairy and also because crying in general fucking sucks. It makes your face hot and your nose run and if you do it too long you get a headache. Fuck that.

So he wandered down to the kissing bridge, carefully carved and R and an E. The ridges of the E felt good beneath his fingernail.

He took a breath.

It could be a fluke. Yeah, it probably was a fluke. Eddie’s his best friend. Of course, he lo- _likes_ him. He’s mixing up perfectly normal platonic feelings. Yeah. He’s confused. That’s all.The carving has effectively purged him of all his stupid, confused, unnatural feelings. Time to lead a fulfilling heterosexual life.

So Richie is content for a few years. Because every time Eddie brushes past him or rough houses with him and his skin burns, he can live with the knowledge this is a fluke. Every time his heart flutters when Eddie smiles, he can know it’s a fluke. He doesn’t actually like boys-he just kind of likes Eddie? And even then he doesn’t really like like Eddie. These feelings aren’t real, he’s not actually in lo—it’s not real. Eddie’s just his best friend-his best friend with beautiful eyes and a razor-sharp wit and an adorable squawk and-

Nope. Nope nope nope. Not doing that. Stupid brain.

Somehow, it is not, in fact, Eddie Kaspbrak that ultimately puts the nail in Richie’s coffin and smashes any ability he has to deny the fact he is, in fact, very much into boys and that his feelings for Eddie are very much not a fluke.

It’s fucking Kurt Cobain.

And really you’d think it’d be the other way around! You’d think it’d be the appropriately distant rockstar would be the “I-don’t-actually-like-boys” safe crush and the best friend would be the extremely cold bucket of gay ass water on Richie’s head. Not that Richie really wants it to be the other way around. Frankly, he doesn’t want this to be any way around.

It goes something like this. They’re piled into Ben’s living room, because they’re all bored and he’s the only one who has MTV

Richies busy regaling Eddie with tales of how hard he fucked his mother the night before-

“Honestly Eds, I’m surprised she was even able to walk today.”

Eddie scowls at him, his browns knotted in that way Richie totally does not find cute. Richie is very heterosexual. “Beep fucking beep, asshole”

Richie doesn’t need to turn away from Eddie -he can feel Stan roll his eyes from the couch behind them. Good ol’ Stan. Sometimes he looks at Richie with this soft, analytical look that unsettles him. Like he _knows_. But Stan is good, so he doesn't say anything. Richie is immensely grateful for that. 

He feels the worn leather toe of Bev’s combat boot nudge his elbow, a nonverbal request to be quiet.

“Turn up the volume,” she tells Ben. Ben complies.

It’s enough to get Richie to actually look at the TV -of all his friends, Bev’s taste in music comes the closest to his own. She’s the only one who doesn’t groan when he starts blasting The Smiths in the clubhouse at any rate, didn’t judge him when he teared up listening to Disintegration, and also the only other person to agree that Johnny Rotten is, in fact, a musical genius.

(Eddie hates the Sex Pistols. He thinks they’re loud and claims they hurt his ears. Something about the way his face scrunches up when Richie plays them makes his stomach feel like jelly).

And - _oh_.

The song is loud and chaotic and good, but frankly, that isn’t what catches Richie’s eye. What does is the singer-a lanky thing in thrift store clothes. He’s screaming and he’s smashing his guitar and his blond hair is all in his face, the only times when it’s really visible being in somewhat distorted close-ups.

It doesn’t matter. Richie can tell he’s hot.

And somehow, it’s this sneering punk rocker on Ben’s shitty TV set that throws Eddie’s beauty into hyperdrive, that makes the freckles on the bridge of delicate nose stand out more, the gentle furrow of a brow, the softness of brown hair. It’s this stupid fucking music video that makes Richie realize this is not a fluke-that he is in fact a fucking flamer and very much in love with his probably- not-a -fucking- flamer best friend.

Motherfucker.

By all logic, Richie should fucking hate Nirvana. After all, it’s stupid Kurt Cobain and his stupid face that shattered Richie’s very comfortable denial bubble. He loved that bubble, goddamit.

But their music is good, and the cover of Nevermind makes Mom do that thing where she breathes out of her nose irritably and Dad sigh and he’s at the point with good Ol’ Mags and Went where disappointing them is more amusing than not. Besides he’d rather they be disappointed in the little things, like his sudden penchant for flannel and his too-long hair smelling like cigarette smoke, than a certain big thing he’s planning on hiding for the rest of his life. They’re decent parents. They don’t deserve that.

Beverly shares his enthusiasm, as he'd expected. She already dresses the part of a grunge girl-all thrifted flannel and torn black tights and Marlboro cigarettes. They blast In Utero behind the dumpsters when it comes out, mostly because it’s good and partly because it freaks Greta Keene out. The other losers aren’t as into it (particularly Stan, who takes issue with the fact it’s virtually impossible to understand whatever the hell Cobain is singing in any given song), but they like it better than The Smiths at any rate. Hell, _Eddie_ of all people is actually pretty into it, snapping at Richie when he tries to skip “Smells Like Teen Spirit”

“I like that fucking song, dickwad.”

Richie snorts. “Are you kidding? It’s so overplayed.” It is- it isn’t even the best song on Nevermind. That is so obviously “Breed”.

Eddie rolls his eyes so hard Richie thinks they might get stuck in his skull. “Yeah, well that’s because it’s fucking good. Now let the damn song play.”

And of fucking course Eddie is still his best friend and Eddie is still fucking beautiful. Eddie still touches him way too much–a brush of an arm against his as he squeezes past him, knees hitting each other when they sit next to each other, fingers tangling together in bags of chips and bowls of popcorn. It makes his skin go on fire in a way that makes the steel wool tingling he felt in the arcade that day look like nothing. And Eddie is _still_ so fucking tactile, as though he hasn't noticed what a repulsive freak Richie actually is. He should be glad he hasn't-means the mask of mom jokes and boasts about girls they all know he hasn't fucked is working. 

And by all logic Richie should be staying away from him, distancing himself. But that’s virtually impossible, because the other losers would notice and because it would hurt Eddie’s feelings. And god, Richie would rather cut off his right arm than ever hurt Eddie’s feelings. Annoy him, pester him, yes. Make him sad? Richie would have to be the scum of the earth to do that

(It’s easier when he makes this solely about Eddie’s feelings. When he doesn’t admit to himself that the other reason he could never distance himself from Eddie is the simple fact that _he doesn’t want to_.

That he likes feeling his limbs brush against his)

High school rolls on. Bev’s voice starts to rasp from how much she chain smokes. Ben gets thinner, his face suddenly turning into chiseled planes of jaw and cheekbone. Mike’s arms get more toned, his hands stronger. Big Bill is no longer the biggest-Richie dwarfs him and Stan is a good inch or two taller than him. Even Eddie, who’s basically a human chihuahua, has gotten taller. His eyes are still as brown. 

Nirvana continues to do well, even as the drug rumors around Kurt Cobain get worse and worse. Richie doesn’t really buy it-frankly the dude would be dead by now if it were really that bad.

He’s pretty much convinced that it isn’t actually that bad until a Friday in his senior year. He’s got his last period free, so he’s planning on ditching and enjoying some alone time in the hammock, without a certain human chihuahua wresting it from him.

“Rich!” Bev’s perched on the hood of Bill’s car, waving him over. To her right is Big Bill himself, looking oddly solemn for 2:30 on a Friday. Richie’s mildly worried.

Does today have something to do with Georgie? He’s pretty sure his birthday was in June, not April. But maybe he forgot it or got it mixed with someone else's birthday. 

“Afternoon, Miz. Marsh. Billiam” He frowns at them. Beverly looks kind of upset-there’s alight smudges of plum eyeliner and muted black mascara under her eyes. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

The comment doesn’t make her grin and fondly roll her eyes like he’d hoped it would. “Kurt’s dead. “

For a minute, Richie has no idea who she’s talking about. Then it clicks. “Kurt _Cobain?!_ ”

Beverly nods. There’s something very sad about the way she does it. Richies too surprised for it to really register-otherwise he’d try to crack another joke. Make her smile. “Did he OD?”

Bill shakes his head. His hand rests on top of Beverly’s, his pinky gently stroking hers. “T-they said on th-the r-radio that he sh-sh-shot himself.”

Well. Richie hadn’t been expecting that when he walked out of trigonometry. “Like with a _gun_?” It's a stupid question, the sort Richie would roll his eyes at and go 'no, dipshit, with a pool noodle' under ordinary circumstances. But these aren't ordinary circumstances-they're weird, surreal ones. 

Bill nods. Beverly is looking at her feet, swinging the messily tied boots back and forth.

“Shit.” It’s all Richie can think to say. Beverly snorts. “You good, Bev?”

“Yeah. “ she looks up at him. “It’s just really sad, you know? He’s got a kid”

“H-he mu-must have been in a lot of pain,” Bill philosophizes.

A lot of pain somehow feels like an understatement for putting a bullet in one’s skull, but Richie guesses Bill has a point.

They’re quiet for a couple minutes, a moment of silence brought on by nothing other than surprise. Bev nudges Richie suddenly. “We’re going over to Mike’s. Wanna come with?”

Richie shakes his head. “Nah. I’m gonna head to the clubhouse. Enjoy my hammock without somebody-“ he turns to look pointedly back at the school, as though Eddie can see him from the art classroom window- “taking it from me”

“N-need a ride?”

Richie shakes his head again. “Brought my bike.” Bill slides off the hood and gets in the car.

Richie puts his hand on Bev’s shoulder when she hops down. “Find solace in your lover’s arms, dear Bevvy. “

Finally, she grins, slapping his hand off her shoulder and flipping him off before she gets in the car.

Richie doesn’t know how he feels. He doesn’t know when he walks his bike out of the parking lot and down the street. He doesn’t know when he walks past the kissing bridge, pointedly ignoring a fading R and E. He doesn’t know when he rolls his bike down the hill to the clubhouse.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. Richie drums his fingers against his knees, further fraying the edges of the holes.

“Time for some music,” he says to no one. He clicks play on the small CD player Ben graciously procured for this space.

The opening riff to “Serve the Servants” begins to play. Richie turns it off

It’s then he realizes what he’s feeling.

He’s fucking _sad._

Really he’s got no business being sad. He didn’t know this person-he was just a distant, somewhat godlike figure who forced Richie to reckon with an incredibly unfortunate truth. Sure he made some cool music, but so do lots of people.

It isn’t like he’s got any right to be sad. Sure Bev was sad, but that’s different. She’s a girl. They’re sensitive

Man, Beverly would kick him in the balls for thinking that. He kind of wants to kick himself in the balls for thinking that.

If anyone should be sad, it’s Frances Bean, because that poor kid is probably fucked. From what Richie’s heard about Courtney Love, she’s at least as messed up as Kurt is ( _was_ , it’s was now, isn’t that a fucking _trip_ ). And even if her mom weren’t totally batshit, growing up without a dad sucks. Eddie still gets this faraway, sad look in his eyes (the look Richie wants to make go away, the look Richie never wants to see) when his dad is brought up. 

He’s quite busy invalidating his own feelings when Eddie’s bizarrely clean Reeboks come down into the clubhouse.

“Hey, Rich. “ there’s something too light in his voice. Like he knows Richie is upset.

“Spaghedward.”

Eddie doesn’t go red and angry at the nickname. A bad sign. Richie tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the way Eddie’s hair curls a little at the nape of his neck, or the fact he can smell his cologne from here. Some people might say that means he’s wearing too much, and maybe he is, but damn it it smells so good and clean and Eddie and Richie’s stomach is turning with a sickening warmth and yearning, longing to reach out and pull Eddie into the hammock beside him, soft pink lips and tanned limbs and all and-

“I heard about what happened,” Eddie says carefully.

Richie blinks. He can feel his lips move into a smile, even though he really doesn’t feel like it. “Guess he lied about that gun, huh, Eds?”

Somehow, Eddie seems to find this comment more offensive than when Richie claimed he’d fisted his mom so hard she’d squirted at lunch the other day. (Richie tries to not find the way his cheeks redden so _cute cute cute_. Makes him feel emptier than he already does) “Richie, what the actual fuck?”

Richie stretches his legs. The farce of a grin that sits on his mouth diminishes a bit. “C’mon, Eds. That was funny”

“No, it wasn’t.” Eddie’s all full of righteous anger and honestly, it’s kind of inspiring in a weird way. “For fuck’s sake, the guy just _died_. Like, _today_.I thought you liked him. “

“I did. “

It comes out way too soft and way too quiet. Richie elects to stare at his dusty Docs instead of Eddie’s face.

Eddie lets out a soft huff of a sigh. Richie tries not to tense up when Eddie’s warm bicep brushes against his own.

They’re quiet for a second. “It’s okay to be sad about it, you know,” Eddie says. “I know you looked up to him.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Richie drawls. He mops a hand over his face so he can ignore the quizzical look Eddie shoots him. “I dunno man. Feels dumb to be sad about someone I don’t even know.”

Eddie crinkles his nose. “Well, it isn’t dumb.”

Richie looks over at him and God, he can’t handle the swelling feeling in his chest because Eddie looks so soft and so patient (a rare expression on his face), and the light is hitting his eyes just the right way and-

Richie starts crying. Hiccuping, shameful sobs. Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Shit, Rich” he coos. He puts his arm around Richie. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. There’ll be other bands. “

Eddie winces at his own comment, but Richie’s mostly glad that he thinks that’s why he’s crying. He doesn’t want him to know the truth. Well, actually, part of him does, but mostly he doesn’t.

Eddie’s hand forms circles on his back. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise, Richie.”

( Bowers screaming at him, the look of disgust on Connor’s face. Fairy, faggot, _freak, freak, freak_. )

“No, it’s not.”

(Mom and Dad, trying their best to love him even though he was so fucking unlovable. So fucking freakish.

They must know, deep deep down.)

Eddie looks at him with an alarmed expression. It quickly melts into something soft and gentle and concerned.

He moves even closer to Richie, his knee bumping against his.

(He randomly thinks of the linear notes on Incesticide-“ _If any of you in any way hate homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor for us—leave us the fuck alone! Don't come to our shows and don't buy our records_.”- how that had almost fucking made him cry tears of joy because it meant his hero didn’t think he was a freak.

It meant he didn’t hate him. )

“What isn’t okay, Rich?” Eddie asks softly.

Somehow that makes Richie cry harder. Eddie’s hand is strong and warm against his back.

(The losers, building the clubhouse. Ben bringing him cupcakes on his birthday. Mike teaching him how to drive his truck. Stan letting him use his beloved binoculars, even as he makes stupid jokes and nearly breaks them. Bill staying up with him at a sleepover to play video games. Beverly grinning at him around her cigarette, letting him sit beside her in companionable silence, knowing way too much but never saying anything because it doesn’t matter.

Eddie giving him cough drops. Eddie lecturing him on the dangers of smoking. Eddie bandaging his hands and knees after he fell off his skateboard. Eddie gloating about having beaten him to the hammock and letting him sit on it anyway.

 _Eddie Eddie Eddie_ )

“I’m gay.”

There isn’t time to regret saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go wide. Richie wants to run, to say it was all a big joke, that the only gay thing about him is that he let Sonia peg him one time.

But then Eddie is hugging him, holding him so tightly he thinks his ribs might crack.

“It’s okay, Richie. It’s okay.”

Eddie pulls back and meets his gaze. Soft tanning skin, big brown eyes, pink mouth.

Richie is kissing him before he knows it. He can’t bring himself to hate himself for it.

That is until he pulls away. Eddie looks at him blankly.

He fucked up. 

“Fuck!” Richie springs back. He feels his heart pulsing in his ears. “Fuck, Eddie, I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Eddie’s fingers ghost over his bottom lip. Richie wants to die, wants to crawl away, and feel nothing ever again.

“Eds, please, just pretend it didn’t happen,” he begs.

Eddie blinks, looking back at him. He shakes his head.

Richie can feel more tears threatening to spill forward. “Eddie I-“

And then the taste of Eddie’s mouth is back on his tongue, warm and spicy and sweet.

Eddie’s eyes are glistening. “ I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen, dickwad. I’ve liked you for way too long to do that”

There’s no way this is happening. Richie is gonna wake up tomorrow. Kurt Cobain’s gonna be alive, which is cool, but Eddie isn’t gonna love him back. And Eddie loving him back is more than enough to make him want to keep dreaming.

“Eds, I need you to kick me in the shin”

Eddie furrows his brow, cute cute cute. “What? Why?”

“I need to make sure I’m awake”

Eddie rolls his eyes but he obliges. It hurts like a bitch.

Richie doesn’t think he’s ever been happier in his whole life. A laugh forces it’s way out of his mouth.

Soon Eddie’s laughing too. They stand in the middle of the clubhouse, arms around each other.

“Man, poor Sonia. “ Richie feigns wistfulness. “Can’t believe I finally get to trade her in for the younger model. “

Eddie pinches his side, hard. “Asshole”

Their peaceful, beautiful moment is effectively over when Bill comes into the clubhouse, Mike and Bev in tow. Eddie tenses up a little, and Richie places his hand on his back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

Bill doesn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary about their embrace. “H-hey guys.”

Behind him, Bev smiles, something soft and gentle and knowing. It takes Mike a second, but he gets it too. His nod is oddly paternal, gentle.

_It’s okay, Rich. It’s okay._

And, yeah, Richie knows his friends love him just like he loves them. But there’s always been this fear, this idea that he is so irrevocably wrong, that they’d stop. That they’d leave him. 

Now, looking at Bev’s gentle green gaze and Mike’s soft smile, he knows they won’t leave him. That they don’t care, it doesn’t matter. It’s nearly enough to make him fucking cry again, but he’s done with that shit. Fuck crying.

Bill claps his shoulder. That stupid shower cap is a little too small for his head. “A-Alright, R-Richie?”

Sweet, sweet Billiam. So oblivious, thinking that the reason his eyes are red is Kurt. “Doing just fine, Billy Boy.” He catches Eddie’s eye and grins at him. Eddie grins right back. “Doing just fine. Where are Staniel and Haystack?”

“They should be on their way,” Mike says. “They took Ben’s car, and Stan had to stop over at home.”

_‘They won’t care either,_ ’ Bev’s eyes say, gray-green and burning with love. ‘ _They love you guys. We all do.’_

“Daddy’s boy,” Richie teases. Eddie rolls his eyes. “Or he’s just responsible, dickwad.”

“You’re just saying that cause you’re a Mama’s Boy. Although I think Sonia likes it better when I call her Momm-“

Eddie tackles him onto the hammock. He’s trying very hard to look angry, but Richie can see the smile he’s fighting. So he laughs, and soon Eddie bursts into a wider grin and laughs just as hard, his body warm and joyfully alive against Richies.

They laugh and they hold each other. Richie is dimly aware of Bill’s confused eyes. “A-am I m-m-missing something?”

He’ll get it. Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> the ending to this may be slightly abrupt, but tbh i really just wanted to work in bill's obliviousness


End file.
